"What about us, Bartley?" she asked in a
thin voice.
He locked and unlocked his hands over
the grate and spread his fingers close to the
bluish flame, while the coals crackled and the
clock ticked and a street vendor began to call
under the window. At last Alexander brought
out one word:--
"Everything!"
Hilda was pale by this time, and her
eyes were wide with fright. She looked about
desperately from Bartley to the door, then to
the windows, and back again to Bartley. She
rose uncertainly, touched his hair with her
hand, then sank back upon her stool.
"I'll do anything you wish me to, Bartley,"
she said tremulously. "I can't stand
seeing you miserable."
"I can't live with myself any longer,"
he answered roughly.
He rose and pushed the chair behind him
and began to walk miserably about the room,
seeming to find it too small for him.
He pulled up a window as if the air were heavy.
Hilda watched him from her corner,
trembling and scarcely breathing, dark shadows
growing about her eyes.
"It . . . it hasn't always made you miserable,
has it?" Her eyelids fell and her lips quivered.
"Always. But it's worse now. It's unbearable.
It tortures me every minute."
"But why NOW?" she asked piteously,
wringing her hands.
He ignored her question. "I am not a
man who can live two lives," he went on
feverishly. "Each life spoils the other.
I get nothing but misery out of either.
The world is all there, just as it used to be,
but I can't get at it any more.
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